


But the vagrant owns the whole vast earth

by Foxsake5



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: A brief study of Robbe, Britt is mentioned, Childish Broerrrs behaviour, Cuties who think they are smoothies, Drunk Kissing, Implied Cheating, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sander is gone for Robbe at the very first glance, Truth or Dare, implied bipolar disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25883599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxsake5/pseuds/Foxsake5
Summary: “You know what,” Sander says with practised indifference, not daunted by the weird situation he finds himself in. Life is fucking weird, and he is the first to accept that. “I wouldn’t mind being your pick.”
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 33
Kudos: 100





	But the vagrant owns the whole vast earth

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm back and so happy to finally add a new fic on here. I've written a lot about these two cuties, but life and brain have not been cooperating lately so I've not published anything. 
> 
> The roads of this one are unknown, just a heads up... For my own sanity I just had to get something out. Please let me know what you think! 😬
> 
> And wow, I'm so grateful for the amount of comments and kudos I have received on my first ever fic, Zaterdag 09:58 (least inspiring title ever, I'm already snoring. And the lyrics were endless clichés). Thank you, you're such lovely readers. 
> 
> And also double-wow at all the amazing fics that exist in this tag. I've read nearly every single one and in the words of Aaron, I'm a big fan! 🥰

**But the vagrant owns the whole vast earth**

_Intro_

Sander thinks his heart will pound out of his chest when he first sees him.

Sitting on the kitchen countertop, surrounded by empty cans of beer and a group of boys radiating high levels of dumbass energy, is the prettiest human he has ever laid eyes on.

The tallest amongst them flips the camera of his phone and shouts out, “Eyyy, Robbe!” while one of the others hangs off his shoulders, both stumbling a little in their drunkenness. “Truth or dare?”

In the white glow of the flash, the boy – _Robbe_ – is a piece of art illuminated. Sander leans against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, and just stares.

His features are delicate and striking at the same time; soft, inviting lips and glittering Bambi eyes, chiselled jaw and cheekbones, and faint freckles dusting his nose as if by the flick of a painter’s brush. He has dark tousled hair that curls over his ears, in one of which a tiny silver hoop hints at a rebellious streak, and Sander likes it. Likes it a lot.

There is something about the way he moves, too, that instantly makes butterflies flutter in Sander’s stomach. He shrugs his shoulders under that large, black t-shirt, loose around his neck and revealing sun-kissed skin, and tilts his head to the side, a tentative, crooked smile dimpling his cheeks. It is unassuming, endearing and graceful, and how has Sander walked the earth for nineteen years and not realised that this is exactly what he has been missing?

He is hopelessly captivated, and the boy named Robbe hasn’t so much as cast a glance in his direction.

Compared to the rest, Robbe is smaller and quieter, preferring to simply watch as his friends act like stereotypical _dudes_ , taking turns filming themselves posing with their tongues lapping between the v of their fingers in obscene gestures.

When the camera eventually focuses back on him, Robbe squints at the light and chuckles, reluctant but easy-going. “I’m not getting away with it, am I?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely not.”

“Hit me with a dare, then.” Robbe sways in his spot, having obviously consumed a liberal amount of alcohol this evening.

Sander for his part had been rather late, and that’s the reason for his mad dash to the kitchen upon arrival, desperate for anything to pour down his throat. He hadn’t planned to drink, but the joint he rolled in the studio hardly suffices to take the edge off the tense, restless state he’s been in lately. Thankfully, Britt said to grab whatever he wanted.

“Scared to share the truth, eh?”

“Yeah, makes me wonder…” The one that had been hanging off the tallest boy straightens and fixes Robbe with a sly look. “What are you hiding from us, _chiquito_?”

“Idiots.” Robbe laughs at their assumption. The sound alone fills Sander with so much _joy_. It eases the tightness, and he feels like he can breathe again. “If this is going to be in one of your stupid vlogs then who would care to know about my secrets? Where’s the fun in that?”

“Alright, alright. We’ll give ‘em some action.”

They begin to throw ideas at each other, with Robbe scoffing or giggling at the increasing ridiculousness. Shaking himself from his daze, Sander shuffles carefully past the guy clad head to toe in an Adidas tracksuit to get to the fridge.

He tries to be casual, though on the inside he is dying to approach Robbe instead. This infatuation is goddamn untimely, he knows, and every sensible cell within him is screaming to leave Robbe alone, yet his curiosity is piqued. What if Robbe lets him touch him? He would explode! And what if Robbe likes him back? What if Robbe is _kind_? What if Robbe could be the one? The _what ifs_ churn in his head until he can envision them happening, like a movie.

“Breathe fire? Nah, I’m not up for that tonight.”

“Come on, circus boy, it’ll be sick! Do it for the vlog.”

“I’ve got my stash at home, so we’d have to leave.”

Sander’s ears perk up. Are they seriously suggesting his angel can do _that_? His grip on the chilled bottle of gin slips and he catches it just before it tumbles to the floor.

“Oooh,” he hears behind him and suddenly several pairs of eyes seem to bore into his back. “I think we’ve got your challenge right here, Mr IJzermans.”

“What do you mean?” Robbe asks, apprehensive, and in Sander’s brain it clicks as a hand lands heavily on his shoulder to steer him around.

“This.” The boy doing the recording pans his phone up the length of Sander’s body and Sander is momentarily blinded. He lifts an arm to shield his face.

“Jens, I swear, if you-”

“So, what’s your name, blondie?”

Sander drops his arm, blinking the shadowed dots from his vision, and catches a glimpse of Robbe. Gone is the humour and sparkle, and he is worrying his lip, clearly dreading what is to come.

“Um, it’s Sander. And who the hell are you?”

“I’m Jens, and we” - he does an unsteady spin to capture them all and surely that footage will make any viewer seasick - “are the _broers_ , and that cutie over there is Robbe.”

Cutie, indeed. Sander wrestles his excitement at being introduced back in place and calmly scans Robbe, as if he hasn’t already spent minutes drinking him in.

“For fuck’s sake, don’t drag him into this,” Robbe groans, a pink blush forming high on his cheeks, and Sander shuts his mouth as to not blurt out how badly he does want to be dragged into this, however twisted it might be.

“Why not? You dared me to make out with Milan last weekend and that was…an experience.” On the screen of Jens’ phone Sander notices that he has zoomed in on Robbe, who is glowering. Fucking adorable, in Sander’s opinion.

“This is revenge? That’s classy, Jens.”

“ _Pfft_. Unlike you I’m actually being a bro and serving you your dream boy on a silver platter.” Jens gesticulates between Sander and Robbe, eyebrows raised.

Sander can’t help it; he breaks into a lupine grin, tasting the promise of _something_. Honestly, he’ll run with whatever as long as Robbe is looking like this, slack-jawed and flustered.

“Where’d you get that idea from?!” Robbe sputters, blush reaching the tips of his ears.

“As if it isn’t old news that you’re totally gagging for d-i-c-k."

“Oh my God, zip it, Moyo.”

“He _is_ very handsome, to be fair.” The curly-haired boy in Adidas pats Robbe on the back, in an attempt to smooth his ruffled feathers. Robbe gives an irritable huff and jumps off the counter.

“I’m not interested in being a part of this messed up game,” he grumbles, avoiding Sander at all costs.

“A kiss, Robbe. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

Robbe rounds on them, exasperated. “I’m not gonna hook up with some random stranger. Besides, you and I both know what you’re _really_ asking, and it’s fucked up.”

“Hey, live a little, man. When did you become such a killjoy?”

Sander nearly bursts out laughing at the glare Robbe sends his friends. Tolerating no bullshit this one, apparently, which to be frank does not bode well for Sander. But he is lying if he doesn’t admit that he finds Robbe even more compelling. Easily bored, he has never preferred the straightforward route.

“Since you decided to do this to me every time we go out. Can’t you lay off for once?”

Jens sighs, patience wearing thin. “Relax, it’s only a dare, not a marriage proposal. No one is implying anything. Right, Moyo? Aaron?”

“My ‘dream boy’, was it? I’m gagging for it, am I?” Robbe snorts. “Very subtle, guys.”

“But we’re not wrong?” Moyo leers, and Aaron snickers into his beer, and Jens coughs to hide a traitorous grin. Robbe exhales a long breath tiredly. It is evident that they have been through this countlessly, and that Sander is going to be the tool in this so-called dare to prove some sort of point.

He shamelessly doesn’t mind.

“Come on, Robbe, don’t be prissy. I’m doing you a favour here.” A hand wraps around Sander’s arm and jostles him from gazing at Robbe like he’s the centre of his universe. “I mean, _look_. He’s a hottie.”

“If you’re so devoted, why don’t you do the honours,” Robbe mutters, and then finally, _finally_ , his brown eyes seek Sander’s. Immediately, they widen, and his lingering blush deepens. Sander is pleased to say the least and would have walked right up to him if Jens wasn’t holding on like he’s a dog on a leash.

“See? I think you fancy him a little bit.”

“Stop it, Jens,” Robbe complains, his annoyance giving way to petulance. “Has Milan’s soul possessed you, or what?”

“Nope. Must be that shitty weed Moyo brought,” Jens contemplates, and as an interlude Sander has to listen to the boys quibble over some fake dealer at the skatepark, a scuffle involving a knife, Aaron’s terrible homemade bong and, strangely, a girl called Julia’s melon breasts.

Sander is close to question whether he is into this after all. They’re utter kids.

“Anyway,” Robbe announces, self-conscious of their discussion rapidly deteriorating. “Let’s forget this, okay? I won’t do it, and I definitely won’t do _you know what_ to him –”

“You wimp.”

“– and, uh, it’s nothing personal.” He turns to Sander, apologetic. One of his brows is a tad wonky, his expression achingly sincere, and Sander could melt on the spot for him. “Not that you care. I just…”

“…Just?” Sander’s voice comes out rougher than intended. Damn, he really is parched.

Robbe deflates, lashes dipping, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his basic skater t-shirt. Dressed to blend into the background, he still magically stands out, and observing him on his two feet in the middle of the familiar kitchen, bathed in the blood orange tint of sunset, Sander is intensely fascinated. His colours are practically obsidian, enriched by the red. He would look so good – _unholy_ – in the darkroom at school; Sander can picture it, and a fist squeezes around his heart as the longing grows strong. What he wouldn’t pay to have Robbe like that…

“I just want a break from everything.” Robbe speaks to his scuffed shoes, the lines of his shoulders drooping. “There’s so much shit going on that I can’t fucking breathe sometimes.”

“And that, my friend, is why you need to get laid.”

“Aaron…” Robbe says it fondly but sags, properly exhausted.

“Fine.” Jens is done with it now. He sets Sander free. “Then I guess you could, I dunno, give Noor a lap dance in the lounge. I bet she’d be _thrilled_.”

If looks could kill.

Sander unscrews the cap with his thumb and tips the bottle to his mouth for a celebratory swig of gin, satisfied by the fact that Robbe appears to be _incensed_ at this option. He doesn’t miss the envy flittering across Robbe’s face as he swallows the cool, stinging liquid.

“Oh, grow some balls and take your pick,” Moyo loudly interrupts, when Robbe is about to protest again, cracking open another beer and slurping messily at the foam spilling over his hand. “It’s ‘bout time we join the party. Get to it, will ya?”

If Sander was Robbe, he would have turned on his heel and left. They are a bunch of fools, Sander included. He wants Robbe to stay. To just bury against Sander and kiss him sweetly. Take them to a different place. It is selfish and unrealistic, as there is no chance Robbe is remotely on the same page, but Sander is not above settling for crumbs. Whenever there is beauty in his ugly realm, he latches onto it in the pitiful hope that it will be his escape.

“Bro, clock is ticking,” Jens prompts, tapping his watch meaningfully.

Apparently, there is more at stake than Sander understands, because Robbe does stay. He shifts his eyes guiltily towards Sander, and while brief, it is enough for Sander to realise that he simply needs that one extra nudge, that one helpful excuse, to make his choice less intimidating.

“You know what,” Sander says with practised indifference, not daunted by the weird situation he finds himself in. Life is fucking weird, and he is the first to accept that. “I wouldn’t mind being your pick.”

He has the attention of the four of them now, though there is only one that matters. The bass-heavy music drowns any noise from the rest of the house and for a moment, he feels as if they are secluded in their own little world, people passing by in the hallway completely unbothered.

Ignoring the indiscreet encouragements from his friends, Robbe angles his chin up in stubborn defiance. “This is so lame. I’m not blaming you if you leave.”

“How considerate. But I can handle it.”

When Robbe rolls his eyes at him, disbelieving, Sander smirks. He spreads his arms out, the gin dangling from his fingers.

“Pick me, Robbe. I won’t bite.”

He meant it as an incentive to get this over with, but Robbe hesitates, more nervous than he had anticipated. Maybe it’s the _broers_ watching like hawks. Maybe it’s Jens gleefully taping this awkward affair. Maybe it’s insecurity, or disgust, or fear. Maybe it’s Sander.

And then in three brave strides, Robbe invades Sander’s space, a jewel to be admired in its entire sublimity, those very last butterscotch rays of sunshine alighting his liquid-bronze eyes, teasing the stripes of caramel in his wavy hair, and casting gold over his skin.

Fuck, how is he even _real_?

The scent of cinnamon and cigarettes wafts over Sander and he falters, unprepared for his own reaction to Robbe’s presence.

“Hi,” he greets stupidly, head empty. Robbe glances through his inky lashes at him, bottom lip between his teeth. God, his sweetness is ruinous. Yet Sander is absolutely panting for it. He can’t falter.

Leaning in, he represses a shiver from Robbe’s soft locks tickling his temple, and whispers in his ear, the silver hoop glinting teasingly at him, “Baby, don’t be shy. You’re too pretty for that.”

Almost brutally, Robbe shoves him to the fridge. Sander gasps, the air knocked out of him in surprise at the force of it, and before he can refill his lungs, Robbe has twisted the front of his jumper and yanked him down to his level, the collar digging painfully into his neck. For an everlasting second, they are suspended, millimetres apart, lips merely brushing.

His sweetness has spice to it. What an exquisite treat.

“Don’t even think about doing anything funny,” Robbe warns, innocent doe-like eyes in slits.

Sander arches a brow. “Do I seem like that type of guy to you?”

“I can already tell that you are.”

“Try me,” Sander murmurs, using his silkiest tone, nuzzling Robbe’s nose to persuade him.

The fury inside Robbe is tamed a little, and he bumps Sander’s nose in mild retribution, his playfulness showing. A weird, unnamed feeling blooms in Sander’s chest, though he doesn’t get to mull over it because within a heartbeat, Robbe has erased the distance and slotted their mouths perfectly together in a searing kiss that has Sander blindly reach for Robbe’s waist and sink his nails in, dizzy from feverish want.

And just as quickly, he is deprived of that blissful, melting heat.

 _Come back_ , he is on the verge of begging, when Robbe’s fingers firmly wrap around his wrists. He blinks open his eyes, unaware that they had drifted shut. Robbe’s lips are slightly smudged, and basically, it is impossible for Sander to let him go. “I’m not done.” The words slip from him, unthinking.

Robbe pauses, a frown on his cute face that Sander wants to smooch all over.

Sander clings to him tighter. The bottle of gin knocks against Robbe’s bony hip, and Robbe makes a muffled, hurt sound. Instinctively, Sander dives in to devour it, his weight driving Robbe backwards. And then another step back, and another, until Sander has him displayed, round-eyed and breathless, against the opposite wall.

He doesn’t allow their thoughts to catch up with them. The rush of adrenaline pumps in his veins and when Robbe bares his neck in a near imperceptive manner, he couldn’t care less if it is accidental. They taunted him long enough and he refuses to not make the most of it. Because it won’t – _can’t_ – last. So, he takes, and he is greedy.

Robbe is warm under his tongue, pulse beating like a trapped bird’s wings. His scent is intoxicating, the taste of him even better, and Sander feels euphoric, all his senses heightened and laser-focused, losing himself in this heavenly corner of the vast cosmos. The need is physical, foremost, his fingertips burning from touching Robbe, and it grounds him, plucks him from mindlessly floating day-to-day in a dull, grey haze.

He can’t remember when he last was this _hungry_.

“Sander,” Robbe moans softly and only for Sander to hear.

“Say my name again,” he mumbles, teeth grazing Robbe’s throat.

“Sander,” Robbe repeats, tugging insistently at his hair. “We’re…” He tapers off and sucks in a sharp breath as Sander nips at the junction of his throat and jawline. “We’re done now.”

“Are we, though?” Sander isn’t willing to do as he is told.

“Please, Sander, don’t be difficult.”

Sander looks up. Robbe is remarkably composed, though his lips are pinker and puffier, and for a moment, as Sander dampens his own lips in appreciation, his eyes glaze over.

 _As if_ they’re done. They have barely started.

He is about to gather him in his arms and revisit the lovely sanctuary that is Robbe’s collarbones, when Robbe uncurls his fingers from his hair and withdraws, pressing his shoulder blades to the wall.

“You said you weren’t that type of guy.”

“You said I was.”

Robbe’s unimpressed snort doesn’t deter him. Hypnotised, Sander follows, boxing him in and creating a zone just for them, safe, private and _blazing_. He moves a hand up to cup Robbe’s cheek, thumb tugging on the corner of his mouth. To his astonishment, Robbe sticks out the tip of his tongue and licks it, as if Sander has even an ounce of power over him.

“ _Amai_ ,” Sander exhales, shaky. “Aren’t you the most gorgeous thing.”

“Am not a thing.” Robbe kisses Sander’s palm next, but his blackened eyes cut to Sander, reprimanding.

“Sorry.” And he means it, slightly ashamed of how incapable he is at tempering his lust. “I just didn’t expect you to be so…so incredibly sexy.”

“Now I know you’re bluffing.”

Sander doesn’t so much as waste a blink. “Come home with me and I’ll show you how serious I am.”

The _broers_ are lurking, shark-like, urging Robbe to be done so they can get out of here.

Robbe falls quiet, measures him with an unreadable, heavy stare that Sander loathes, the demon on his shoulder feeding off the unknown. 

Great, Sander. Congrats. You have done it. Crossed the precarious line of being merely _into it_ and pushy, too much, outrageous.

That’s the catch, though: It is either all the way or no way with him. Britt can yell at him to bloody think twice until she is hoarse, and still he succumbs to every whim and he does so grandly, obsessively, without precautions. Which is ironic, since he spends most nights sleepless and overthinking and beating himself up over past actions. But when it feels right, he just…has to do it! And Robbe feels right. He can’t really explain why. His whole heart is full of that feeling.

Jens’ figure is looming, his plum hoodie an unwelcome reminder that they are not alone _and also in Britt’s kitchen_ , for crying out loud. The knowledge is uncomfortable and creeping, like icicles gliding down his spine, prickling like needles, and mentally, Sander is wreaked by a shudder.

When Robbe doesn’t respond – doesn’t assuage the rising panic in Sander’s gut – and the silence gets stuffy, Sander is whisked back to the present, where Robbe is a boy he doesn’t know and who is never going to be more than that.

He should respect Robbe. He should politely make himself scarce, crawl back into his cage, daydream forever, and carry on staining innumerable stacks of paper with charcoal, blood and tears.

But fucking hell, he hates _endings_. He wishes he didn’t get attached so easily. It’s pathetic.

Sander leans his forehead on Robbe’s, locking their eyes to search for the tiniest clue. There is none. “Okay,” he sighs, infinitely regretful. “Guess we’re done.”

“I guess we are.”

“Or not?”

“Sander…” Robbe flicks his gaze to the side to check with his friends. “I should go. Thanks for, um, for not cringing too hard. This was a disaster, I know.”

“ _You_ ’re thanking _me_?” Sander is so amused by this that he has to laugh.

“Yeah?” Robbe laughs too, honeyed and mellow, wild hair toppling over half-moon eyes. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d be having fun with someone else by now, probably.”

“There is no one I’d rather have fun with than you.” Once more, the words just slip from him. “You’re wonderful.”

“Silly,” Robbe admonishes, absentmindedly running his hands up Sander’s neck and into his hair again, short nails scraping his scalp.

Sander is _delighted_. Whatever he did to buy himself a few extra minutes was genius.

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Robbe studies him, head tilted in that charming way of his. Then he asks, shockingly insolent, “What would you do to me, if you took me home?”

The ground could have split in two from the surreal sensation of plummeting, non-stop, weightless. Sander hadn’t ever counted on Robbe being so direct, and he thought he was a fairly decent judge of character.

He wonders if he is wading into too deep water. Still, as always, he plunges in. “I would get you on my bed,” he answers bluntly, throat dry. “Kiss you, undress you, and…”

“And?”

Sander grabs Robbe by the hips. “Christ, is this a test?”

“I’m just curious.” Robbe lowers his lids, tipping a little closer to him, failing at pretending he has pure intentions. "About what’s going on in your mind when you look at me.”

Their breaths mingle and it is intimate, devastatingly so for Sander’s gossamer restraint.

“Firework,” he whispers, eyes landing on Robbe’s exposed neck that is scattered with the crimson marks of his uncontrolled desire. He’s not sorry.

He hopes they will bruise.

Robbe offers him a slow half-smile. “Hm. That’s pretty cool.”

“‘S very cool. Galaxies, shooting stars, rainbows…” And he kisses that smile, and Robbe kisses back shyly and just as sweetly as Sander had imagined. A real kiss, not fuelled by hellbent fire to fulfil a childish dare.

“Why does this feel like I’m making a deal with the devil?” Robbe mumbles as he draws back, nibbling on Sander’s lip – clumsy or intentional, Sander has given up on figuring him out and savours what he has, here and now.

“’Cause I’m no good,” Sander jokes feebly. “You should stay far, far away, little lamb.”

Robbe’s mouth twitches into a small smirk, akin to a fox. “Who says I am the lamb?”

“Shit, is it me?” Sander chucks him under his chin, grinning lasciviously. If only Robbe knew. “Lucky for you, I’m not scared.”

“Perhaps you should be,” Robbe teases, and stretches onto his tiptoes. Sander’s hands slide around his waist to the curve of his back where they fit so well, and then Robbe places the plushest kiss on his lips that he has ever received, gentle fingers resting on his temples as if he is something precious too.

Every fibre of Sander’s being vibrates with the need to belong to him.

He is eager to let Robbe take the lead this time and so the kiss gets dirtier, wetter, flooring him with passion, no room for second-guessing. Which is why Robbe manages to sneakily break free from his pliant embrace, effortlessly nicking the gin while he is at it, too.

Cold replaces the warmth where Robbe had been tucked against him. Snapping back to reality, Sander reels around to watch Jens, Moyo and Aaron toss their heads back, cackling, and Robbe grin like a thief, flushed and immensely pleased with himself.

He earned that reward, Sander supposes.

As Robbe is pulled resolutely out of the kitchen, their eyes meet and he salutes Sander in triumph, gin sloshing in the bottle, before disappearing into the hallway with his friends. And also, with a piece of Sander’s heart.

Sander rubs a hand over his face. He must be beaming like an idiot. No amount of stress from Britt or his parents or his professors would be able to quell his mood for minimum a week. He has kissed a goddamn angel, how about that?

Suddenly, his fingers itch to manifest his emotions on a wall in lots of intense colours, and he remembers Noor mentioning an abandoned warehouse earlier and that she would text him if the crew were graffitiing tonight.

He reaches into his pocket to fish out his phone.

His pocket is empty.


End file.
